


A shot in the dark

by aussiemel1



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 21:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiemel1/pseuds/aussiemel1
Summary: Morse is attacked in his own home.  Strange and Thursday pick up the pieces.





	A shot in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story before watching series 5 episode 6 (Icarus). Place this on the timeline somewhere before that episode.

If he hadn’t been so tired, worn down by long hours, he might have noticed something amiss, scratches on the lock perhaps, dirt on the carpet.  At a crime scene nothing escaped his notice but he wasn’t in that frame of mind entering his own house.

Morse absently flicked on the hall light, threw his keys on the side table, and didn’t bother with the light in the sitting room as he headed for the liquor cabinet.  It was slightly concerning how much he ached for alcohol.  It beckoned to him from a laminate lowboy and he closed his fingers around the neck of a bottle like a reluctant lover, with a sense that he shouldn’t, it wasn't good for him.  _It will help me sleep_ , he countered internally.  His thoughts were whirling, so much of work was tying to assert dominance and he wanted a little peace.  It didn’t seem unreasonable, it hushed the whisper of dependence and addiction.

He splashed liquor into a glass, barely a finger and drank it in one gulp and felt better for it, more balanced, and justified in turning to it. He gently lay the glass on the cabinet and stared thoughtfully at the whisky bottle, considering whether to have another, if it would show strength of character to deny himself or if he should just drink however much he wanted.

The gunshot was loud, an explosion, it made Morse nearly jump out of his skin as the bullet punched into his back with burning fury.  He whipped his head around and glimpsed a figure clothed in black, wearing a balaclava, scurry into the kitchen toward the back door. Any thought of following was foiled by his knees becoming jelly, dashing him to the floor in a graceless and uncoordinated heap.

The carpet was rough against his cheek.  He lay dazed and disbelieving, the whole episode occurring so quickly, without any preemption, that he found it difficult to digest.  Blood was spreading across his back, hot and wet, tickling unpleasantly, causing the material of his shirt to stick to his skin.  He realised he needed to do something, shake himself into action, time was ticking.  He couldn’t tell if he was badly injured or just grazed, if he could wait for Strange to get home or urgently needed attention.  Flattening his palms against the ground, pushing to test his strength, the pain in his back was quickly unendurable, bare inches were scaled before he collapsed to the ground, gasping and trembling.  It was unlikely that he could make it to the street for help, or even to the phone in the hallway.   

After a few thoughtful moments, Morse decided that what he could do was roll onto his back and try to staunch the flow of blood.  It wasn’t much in the larger scheme but it felt achievable and his sense of action demanded something.   He managed it without much trouble, breathing through the stabs of pain, dismayed by the disassociation in his fingers and toes which were almost numb, it seemed premature to be feeling that kind of effect.  He called loudly for help twice then felt ridiculous because the chance of a passerby hearing his cry and breaking down the door to reach him seemed remote.

Thoughts turned to why. And who. Cases flicked through his head, violent suspects, angry words, but he couldn’t get a handle on who might want him dead.  He couldn't help thinking it was a mistake.  Wrong house.  Wrong person.  Shooting an officer in his own house was so outrageously brazen that it had to be a mistake.

“Blimey Matey, what happened to you?”

Strange crouched on his heels in the dim light wearing a mildly concerned expression.  Morse hadn’t heard him enter, lost in his own head. The solace at help arriving caused his heart to skip a few beats, made him lightheaded.  Or maybe that was the blood loss.  His mouth wouldn’t move the way he wanted, he felt palsied and with great difficulty he issued, “Sh-shot.”

Strange’s face dropped.  He gaped at his roommate for a beat, stunned into silence before dropping an expletive that Morse had never before heard him utter.

Morse blinked long and when he opened his eyes Strange was gone, making him wonder if he had imagined the whole thing, wishful thinking. But there was a voice in the background, Strange talking low and urgently in the hallway, issuing instructions into the phone.  Morse blinked long again, struggling against the weight of his lids and when he opened his eyes Strange was beside him once more which was disconcerting, like he was jumping through time.

"Christ," Strange muttered.  The light was on, making Morse squint.  A kitchen towel hung limply from the big man’s hand as his eyes raked the prone figure, trying to find a pattern to the spatter of blood.  “I can’t tell where…”  

“Back,” Morse breathed, calm, oddly calm.  Now that Strange was beside him it felt like everything was going to be fine and he mentally let go, trusting his roommate to take control and make the necessary decisions.

“Right.”  Strange exhaled.  “I should probably roll you over and put pressure on the wound then.”

Morse hummed, disconnecting, losing his grip on the surrounds.  A meaty hand was jammed under his shoulder, another under his thigh and he was levered onto his stomach with as much care as his companion could muster.  Morse vocalised his agony as he was sliced in two, never very good at stoicism. 

"Sorry Matey.  Who did this?  What can you tell me?"

Morse mumbled, his face buried in the carpet, trying to tell Strange that he was pressing too heavily on him, that he could hardly breathe, and then he drifted away.

* * *

Morse pried open bleary, reluctant eyes and immediately felt exhausted, unrested, with a thick haze in his brain that was hard to swim through.

“Morning seargent.  What time do you call this then?”

Morse flinched at the voice, startled that he was in company and travelled his gaze slowly around the room to get his bearings, resting on Fred Thursday slouched in an armchair.  Thursday’s button down shirt and brown pants were deeply creased, matching the lines etched into his aging face but there was relief in the fond eyes as he folded into his lap the newspaper he'd been reading.

“You’re a lucky man.”  Thursday straightened, stretching his back.  “Shot at point blank range and the bullet went right through you, missed everything. Well,” he tipped his head.  “Everything vital.  Caught a few ribs in its path but they’ll heal.  The doctor called you the luckiest bugger in Oxford.”

Morse furrowed his brow, not feeling particularly lucky. Matter of perspective he figured.  His thoughts were sticky but he remembered the gunshot, could tell he was in hospital.

“How long,” he croaked, his throat too dry.

Thursday understood the shorthand.  “Four days. The loss of blood knocked you around a bit, it was touch and go for a moment, everybody running.  But I wasn’t worried, I knew how stubborn you were.”  He issued a wry smile that contradicted the confidence, hinted at sleepless concern.

Morse averted his gaze feeling unwontedly guilty.

“You’ve been in and out since.  More out than in.  Fancy was sitting with you yesterday, talking while you slept and you told him to shut up. We all took it as a good sign.”

There was a slow and rhythmic quality to the way Thursday spoke, it was intentionally soothing.  Morse fixed his gaze on the ceiling and let the cadence wash over him, grateful that his superior was capable of a unilateral conversation because he didn’t feel like talking, he just wanted to listen and be soothed.

Thursday relaxed back into the chair. “Win and Joan wanted to come by and see how you were but I told them to leave it for a while, let you get your strength.  Joan made a cake.  She said you need to eat.  But she’s not known for her cooking and I was worried it might finish you off so I gave it to the boys at the station.  If she asks, it was chocolate.  Bit dry.”

After a pause Thursday continued, “I spoke to Joyce.”  He said it lightly to counter a negative response, he knew Morse wouldn’t be happy about informing his sister.  “She’s next of kin, so I had too.  She was quite upset.  I’ve managed to keep her away for now, I told her you were on the mend, that there was nothing to be gained by coming but she’s very keen to visit.  You might want to give her a call when you feel up to it. I think hearing your voice would settle her nerves.”

Morse gave a small incline of the head and suddenly felt very fragile, emotionally overwhelmed at the thought of the people who cared.  People cared about him.  It wasn’t something he had dwelled on before and now it was affectingly touching.  He pressed fingers against his eyes, rubbed the lids like he was trying to clear his vision but in reality he was trying to forestall hot tears that threatened to erupt. He couldn’t do anything about his jaw, which quivered traitorously, even with his teeth clenched, and he twisted his head away.

Thursday, God bless him, continued like he hadn’t noticed the unravelling.  It wasn’t that long since he’d been shot, nearly died and he knew what Morse was feeling, head and heart all over the place, trying to work through it.

“We’ve squeezed every thug, hood and lowlife in the city. We’ve roughed up or hauled in anybody who even looked at us wrong.  The streets of Oxford have never burned so bright.  Our current theory is that one of Ames’ men got to you.  I had a nice little tête-à-tête with Ames, I made my position very clear to him and he said he'd look into it.  If it's one of his I think he'll want to make amends.   I'm pretty sure Ames didn’t order it, no right minded crook would, he’d have known the heat it would generate.  More like a minion went rogue to make a name.  Didn’t think it through.  I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a body in the river in the next few days. Until then we’ll continue the old school policing, keep beating the bushes and see what falls out.” Thursday’s lips flickered upward.  “I’m in my element.  Retirement might be premature.”

The levity quickly vanished, Thursday’s expression became solemn, dark, and he shook his head.  “Attacked in your own home.  It’s not on Morse.  I won’t have it.  If Ames doesn’t make this right then I’ll do it personally.”

“Prison,” Morse prompted, a surprise to Thursday that he'd been listening, following, because he looked far away.  “You’ll make an arrest.”

“Not this time.”  The soft features of the older man hardened in determination, narrowed eyes dared the injured man to contradict him.

Morse exhaled his disgust, appalled that a man was going to die on his behalf but too tired to raise a head of ethical steam.  

Silence rested between them.  

“Right.”  Thursday pressed his palms against the chair arms and pushed to his feet, grabbing the jacket perched on the seat back.  “I should let you rest.  Win will probably make a casserole, I’ll bring it up tomorrow. You would do well to eat it, get some meat on those bones.”

“Nobody dies,” Morse insisted, strength in his voice, resolve.  “Not by your hand.”

Thursday sighed an irritated breath, his eyes flat.  They weren't equals. Morse had never understood that.  There was a hierarchy, and questioning a superior officer was unacceptable, unseemly, inspectors didn't have to justify themselves to sergeants.  And he felt pretty strongly about this particular circumstance.  Killing whoever had attacked Morse seemed right, biblical, an eye for an eye.  

But it was going to cause a rift.  He could see it in the sullen expression on Morse’s face, the set of his jaw.   Morse was black and white for the law, frustratingly so, a real stickler for every letter.  Even if Thursday did the deed and claimed self defence Morse would never believe it, would never forgive him, not now that he’d tipped his hand.   It didn’t seem worth a rift, not after the angst and worry of the past few days.

“Alright Morse,” Thursday conceded gently.  “Not by my hand.”  And he fervently hoped Ames would do it for him.  Or one of the other officers.

Morse lost his sharpness, melted a little into the bedding and looked so bloody pale and vulnerable that it made Thursday angry.  He had just agreed to be hamstrung, there was nothing he could do to fix the situation, make it right, other than follow the rule of law which was often impotent and disappointing. 

Thursday started for the door, stopped at the head of the bed and added, “Strange will probably drop by later and see for himself that his ministrations didn’t kill you.  I’ll let the boys at the station know you’re on the up.”

Morse’s eyes were closed but he gave a small incline of the head in acknowledgment and very quickly drifted back into sleep.

The end. 


End file.
